Arun woke up at 6:45 AM to the sound of his roommate's alarm — a violent Bollywood remix of "Kala Chashma."
He stared at the ceiling.
"Why, God? Why this song?"
Rohan was already dressed, tying his shoes. "Bro! First day at new office? Excited?"
Arun rolled out of bed. "Excited about what? Sweaty travel? Bad food? New headaches?"
Rohan grinned. "Mumbai attitude mastered. Proud of you."
Arun brushed his teeth silently.
Today was important — not emotionally, just practically.
New office.
New environment.
New rules.
No mistakes.
He put on a clean shirt, combed his hair, and stepped out.
The PG corridor smelled like incense mixed with yesterday's roti.
He ignored it.
The Bus Stop
Mumbai mornings were different from Chennai — faster, sharper, noisier, busier.
Everyone walked like they were late for something important.
Arun reached the bus stop outside Santacruz station.
Crowded.
Predictable.
Smell of vada pav in the air.
A bus screeched to a halt.
He stepped in.
Inside, the crowd was a mosaic of:
office workers
college students
elderly uncles reading newspapers
aunties discussing inflation
some guy listening to Punjabi rap loudly
Arun found a spot near the middle, holding the overhead bar.
He kept his head down.
He preferred being invisible.
Until he wasn't.
Because that's when he saw her.
She was in the seat two rows ahead, window side.
Light blue kurta, loose hair tied in a low ponytail, small earbuds in her ears, looking out at the passing city with an expression that didn't match Mumbai's chaos.
Calm.
Collected.
Almost… still.
Not quiet in a shy way.
Quiet in a controlled way.
Her posture wasn't tense or dramatic — just straight, attentive, aware.
And her eyes…
Sharp.
Not soft, not dreamy — sharp, observant, the kind of eyes that notice things most people ignore.
Arun had seen ambitious people.
Overconfident people.
Arrogant people.
He had never seen someone who carried silent authority without even trying.
His gaze lingered for a second too long.
Who is she?
He looked away.
Arun wasn't the type to stare at strangers.
Nor fantasize.
Nor create imaginary stories.
But something about her felt… different.
Not romantic.
He dismissed it.
Mumbai was full of interesting-looking people.
She was probably just another office-goer.
He held the bar and looked out the window.
But his mind nudged him.
Look again.
He ignored it.
Then bus jerked sharply — a sudden brake.
People lurched forward.
Someone cursed loudly.
Arun steadied himself.
The girl barely moved.
Her grip tightened on the seat ahead, but her posture remained controlled.
Arun raised an eyebrow.
Most people flailed during Mumbai bus brakes.
She didn't.
Interesting.
A biker cut dangerously close to the bus, and the driver swerved suddenly.
Arun's balance tilted — he almost lost grip.
And something inside him reacted.
A tiny spark.
A half-freeze.
A flicker.
Time slowed.
Not fully.
Just a subtle drag, like reality hesitated for a split second.
Arun regained balance before falling.
Time snapped back.
No one noticed.
No one except…
Her.
For one strange moment, her eyes lifted from the window…
and met his.
Sharp, assessing, curious.
Not shocked.
Not impressed.
Not scared.
Just observant.
As if she sensed the shift in the air.
As if she felt something strange happened.
Arun looked away immediately.
Shit. Control. I need better control.
He breathed slowly, calming himself.
When he glanced again, she had already turned back to the window, expression unreadable.
Two college boys behind Arun whispered loudly:
"Dude, that's the Rathore girl, right?"
"Which one?"
"The one from Sion? The royal family types? Dad owns half of South Mumbai? Something like that."
"Oh! Rathore Group? That massive tech company?"
"Yeah yeah! I heard she travels by bus sometimes. Said it's her 'thinking time.'"
Arun's grip tightened slightly.
Rathore. Again.
Priya from HR mentioned the name.
Senthil joked about a Singh-Rathore girl on the board.
The transfer letter had "A. S. Rathore."
He looked at the girl again.
Could she be—
He immediately shut down the thought.
Impossible. Coincidence.
There must be hundreds of Rathores in Mumbai.
And besides, rich people don't travel by BEST bus.
(Except the very strange ones.)
He forced himself not to stare.
Halfway through the ride, a baby started crying loudly.
The mother bounced him gently but couldn't calm him.
The whole bus tensed — crying babies were universal enemies of public transport.
But the girl moved slightly.
She removed one earbud.
Turned just a little.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to meet the baby's eyes.
She made a very small clicking sound with her tongue.
Barely audible.
But the baby stared.
And slowly…
Stopped crying.
Silence fell.
The mother looked relieved.
A few people in the bus murmured appreciation.
Arun watched, surprised.
Not because she calmed the baby.
But because she wasn't doing it for attention.
No smile.
No nod.
No acknowledgement.
She just put her earbud back and continued looking out the window.
Who is this girl?
Arun Gets Down — Destiny's Crossroads
The bus neared his office stop.
Arun pressed the bell.
As he moved toward the door, he passed by her seat.
Not too close.
Not deliberately.
Just part of the normal bus flow.
For a second, a very brief second…
Her gaze flicked up again.
They didn't speak.
No spark.
No dramatic Bollywood music.
No slow-motion nonsense.
Just two pairs of quiet eyes crossing paths.
His — unreadable.
Hers — observant.
Arun got down.
The bus pulled away.
He didn't turn to look.
He wasn't the dramatic type.
But as he walked toward his new office building, he felt that same quiet tug in his chest.
Soft.
Unexplainable.
Instinctive.
Why do I feel like I'll see her again?
He shook it off.
New city.
New people.
Coincidences happen.
He entered the office gate, unaware that this morning's quiet girl in a blue kurta…
…was Aditi Singh Rathore.
But she would only reveal that much later.
For now, the story let them pass each other like strangers.
Almost.
Just almost.